


Losing Track

by Macx



Category: CSI: NY
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-13
Updated: 2011-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-19 09:02:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macx/pseuds/Macx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mac Taylor takes a dive on a case and ends up with a messed-up knee. He also makes one of the worst patients ever</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losing Track

**Author's Note:**

> The accident is based on a real life incident, involving a friend of mine who slipped on her son's coloring books. She described the whole thing rather vividly to me and the idea was born. Unlike Mac she didn't have surgery, though, and she still has knee ligament trouble

Detective Mac Taylor surveyed his latest crime scene, sharp eyes taking in the details. The street wasn't very busy for the time of day, and the yellow crime scene tape kept trucks and cars and foot traffic from intruding. Police cars were at the end of each street, keeping an eye on people and on their criminalists. The scene as such was right in front of him. The body of a young man had been found close to a loading ramp that went down into the basement of a five-story building. There was a small business company on the first two floors.

The victim had been discovered by the owner of the business who had come in early to check on last evening's incoming orders. As far as Mac understood, the owner was running an internet business. He still had to talk to the man. So far the detective on call was busy taking down name, address and whatever information the man could give him.

Danny Messer was taking photos of the crime scene and the twisted body. It looked like the man hadn't just dropped dead. He looked… posed.

As if reading his mind, Danny looked up from his photographic survey. "Looks kinda strange, huh?"

"Posed," Mac agreed softly.

He continued his examination, flashlight seeking dark corners to see if there was something interesting there. There was a glint at the bottom of the ramp that caught Mac's interest and he started down the steep incline. There was dirt at the bottom, but something reflected the light.

His right foot made one step forward.

And lost tracking.

He suddenly found himself without balance and his foot continued sliding on the sand and gravel that was on the dirty ramp.

Mac knew he gave an exclamation of surprise, but then there was only the sensation of falling, sliding, and the impact of his body against the concrete.

For a long, long moment Mac couldn't catch a clear thought. He felt winded, his back hurt, and he lay awkwardly on the ramp. There was a voice, yelling his name, and there was the sound of booted feet slip-sliding to a stop beside him.

"Mac!" Danny yelled. "Mac, are you okay?"

He felt strange, like blood pressure going down abruptly. Dizziness assaulted him and Mac briefly closed his eyes, trying to breathe.

"Mac!"

"Danny?" he tried.

"Yeah. Just lay still. Your leg looks a bit gross. I called paramedics."

Paramedics? He hadn't heard anything. And what was that about his leg?

Mac tried to lift his head, but Danny's hand pushed him down. "Don't. I think you twisted something in that spectacular dive."

There was a faint trace of humor, but very faint, and overlaid with worry.

Mac closed his eyes again and now felt his knee starting to throb. It was a sharp, spiking pain and he gritted his teeth. Damn. That didn't bode well.

Paramedics arrived and he was asked questions over questions, answering them as much as possible. He was getting slightly nauseous and the leg wouldn't stop throbbing. A brace was applied and it had him nearly scream. It hurt! It hurt like a bitch!

Danny was still there. He heard his voice, but it sounded far away.

Dizziness returned.

From a twisted knee?

He was lifted, the gurney pushed into the ambulance, then rushed to the hospital.

* * *

Danny walked into the precinct, looking around for Don, and found his friend near the coffee station, grimacing into a cup of black sludge. Messer knew that sludge and had often before wondered who bred that stuff and called it coffee. It was barely drinkable and he suspected that, if left alone for too long, would develop into a sentient life form.

Flack dumped the plastic cup.

"Hey, Don," Danny greeted him.

"Hey. Don't go near that coffee. I think Marks made it. Tastes like acid on mud with a sprinkle of chocolate."

"Chocolate?" Danny laughed. "Man…"

"What's up, Messer? Feeling bored?" Don teased.

Danny nodded toward one of the empty interrogation rooms. Flack frowned, but he followed, closing the door behind him.

"What's going on?" he asked again.

"I didn't want you to hear it over the radio or the grapevine. Mac had an accident at a crime scene."

Don felt something inside of him twist sharply and he fought to keep his face composed.

"Accident?" he just asked, proud to hear his voice was even.

"He twisted his knee. It's not bad. He got a few bumps and bruises on top of that from the fall. I haven't heard the final verdict on his knee yet."

Don fought against the need to grab for the phone and call the hospital. He didn't even know which hospital Mac was in!

"Uh, thanks for telling me."

"Hey, what are friends for. I wouldn't want to hear about something like this from anyone either. I just thought it's better to hear it from a friend who was there. No need to think the worst."

Don nodded, feeling a bit confused.

"If you wanna go visit, it's Park Hospital. Maybe you can get more information by the time you're there."

The confusion rose.

Danny smiled calmly. The expression in those blue eyes was… knowing. Don didn't want to interpret what Danny might know. He just nodded again.

"It's appreciated."

Danny clapped him on the shoulder. "You're my best friend. Mac's my friend and my boss."

"Danny…?"

The expressive eyes were serious all of a sudden. "Just go and visit. You might be needed to chain him to the bed. We all know how stubborn he is."

He shot Don a grin and opened the door, leaving the room. Don felt his head spin. Then he pushed those thoughts aside and headed toward his car.

* * *

Mac Taylor gritted his teeth and limped out of the elevator, heading for his apartment door. The crutches made soft thudding noises as he went along. His knee throbbed gently with each step.

Damn.

The doctor at Park had reassured him that the knee wasn't broken, but he had a ligament rupture. Surgery had been three days ago and now he was on a tight regiment of rehab therapy.

Don was at his side, carrying the overnight bag, and he also opened the apartment door. Mac limped inside, immediately heading for the couch to put his leg up. Flack dumped the bag.

"You want something to drink?" he offered.

"Water," Mac answered tiredly. He knew he wasn't allowed coffee.

His wish was granted and a glass of water was placed on the table, and Flack sat down on the couch chair next to him.

"Pain?" he wanted to know.

"Not much."

"I'll get the prescriptions filled," his lover told him. "I'll call Stella that you're home and will be out for a while."

Mac grimaced. The doctor had been very firm on the no work rule. As long as the rupture was healing, Mac was to take it easy. Keep weight off the knee, use the crutch, elevate the leg. Maybe in two weeks they might talk about going back to desk work. Field work was out of the question for now.

"Take it easy, Mac," Don said. "You need to rest."

"It was a stupid accident!" Mac ranted. It was the same he had said again and again in the hospital.

"Most of them are. You can't change it. It happened."

Of course he couldn't, but that didn't make him feel better. On top of his anger over a stupid, needless accident came the painkillers. They made him dizzy, like packed in cotton wool, and sleepy.

"Get some rest, Mac," Flack said softly. "I'll head over to the pharmacy, then grab a few things to eat."

Taylor sighed. "Yeah, okay."

"Anything special you want?"

His stomach was too queasy from the medication to actually have an opinion, so he shook his head.

"Want me to help you over to the bed?"

"Staying here," Mac murmured.

"All right. Be back in a few. Don't do anything stupid," Don told him firmly.

Mac grimaced. "I won't."

It got him a smirk, then Flack was heading out again. Taylor just closed his eyes, the world slip-sliding gently away, though he didn't fall asleep. It was this strange condition between awake and asleep where you still heard the noise around you but were too heavy and tired to react.

Mac didn't care what it was. He just wanted to sleep off the medication.

* * *

The next weeks were hell. Not just for Mac Taylor, who was limping around the apartment, unable to really bend his knee to just put his shoes on, who had to elevate his leg and do straining and painful exercises. The pain wasn't too bad a companion. He was a Marine, had been in active service, and he had experienced pain worse than that.

Simple tasks were suddenly rather huge and even impossible. No, there was also Don. His lover drove him to rehab, he helped him through exercises at home, and he stopped him before he overdid it, damaging the healing ligament again. Mac didn't realize just how much he was burdening on his younger lover until the day Stella came visiting. His team had dropped by now and then, keeping him up to date with work matters, and Mac was hoping the doctor would clear him for light duty, which meant desk work, next week. It meant springing him from this prison.

When Stella came through the door, carrying grocery bags, it should have been Mac's first clue. So far, only Don had shopped for him, aside from the take-out Danny had brought him, or the donuts from Hawkes.

Stella dumped the grocery bags on the kitchen island and started to unpack.

"Stella? What are you doing?" Mac asked.

"Stocking your fridge. You need it."

She began to pile the food into cabinets, the fridge and the freezer.

"You don't need to shop…"

"Wrong. I need to shop, Mac."

"Don's helping me."

Maybe it was something he had said, maybe it was just the Bonasera temper, maybe it was a tiny clue the criminalist had missed, but Mac Taylor knew when Stella's good-natured mood switched from warm to scathing.

"When have you become such an ass, Mac Taylor?"

Mac drew back, surprised. "What?"

"Have you given Don more than a fleeting look in the past weeks? The guy looks like he hasn't slept more than a few hours in the last weeks! He's working his job, running himself ragged with double shifts so he can take another off to help you with whatever, and you don't even know!" she accused.

And Mac didn't know. He hadn't given the fact that Don was able to get him to almost every rehab appointment or examination. Mac had taken a cab twice in the last weeks, and everything else had been Don driving him.

"I…"

"You're clueless! You're blind. Again! Mac, what do I have to do to make you understand that Don isn't Claire and never will be?"

"I know he isn't!" he snapped, a sore spot aching inside him.

This was the first time he had a relationship with a man. At least an intimate one like he had with Don. Flings didn't count. Don had breached all his defenses, torn down walls, and he had touched something deep inside. Mac loved him and he didn't want to hurt him, but in the months they had been an item now he had hurt his lover more often than not. Flack didn't show it, but he was hurting.

Like right now.

Mac had taken his anger about his accident out on the person closest to him. He demanded and Don didn't fight back. He just helped. He did what he had to do to make things easier.

He sank onto a chair and rubbed his forehead. "I wish he would just kick my ass when it gets to be too much."

"Don won't do that, Mac. Not after what happened to him. You took care of him for months, you helped and did what was necessary. I think he wants to repay you in a way, but he's running himself into the ground."  
Mac closed his eyes, fighting the memories of that time Stella was talking about.

"Mac?"

"I'll talk to him."

She squeezed one shoulder. "Do that. How are you?"

"Right now? I feel like scum. And the leg is a pain. It's getting better. I think I'll be back next week to terrorize you from behind the desk."

She chuckled and he looked at her with a faint smile.

"Thanks," Mac only added.

Stella nodded. "You're welcome. We're family, Mac. I love Don and I care for him. I know you love him, too. In a different way. More deeply."

He was silent, aware just how true that was. He loved Don, but the last weeks had gotten to him in a way no crime scene, no violent crime, no hurting victim had ever come. Mac had all the time in the world to do what he wanted to, but he couldn't. He was trapped in his own home. He was too immobile, too dependent, too… alone.

"Give yourself time to heal," Stella added as if reading his mind. "Don's there for you if you let him."

"Yeah." He scrubbed a hand over his face.

How could a criminalist be so blind? How could Mac, who had a sharp eye and mind, who wouldn't be fooled by staged evidence and shifty criminals, overlook what he was doing to Flack? How could Flack hide it all so well?

Because Mac wasn't looking at his lover with the eyes of a criminalist. His view was already tainted by his anger about the injury, so whatever else came at him was filtered through that anger, and little of the observational skills had remained.

"I don't want to hurt him, Stella," he said after a while. "But I always seem to. And he takes it."

"He feels like he owes you for what you did for him," she answered softly.

"He doesn't!"

"Not what Don feels like."

Mac hissed in frustration.

"Both of you aren't exactly very outspoken about your emotions," Stella added with a fine smile. "I think that's where the problems begin. Talk to him, Mac. Tell him. Ask him. He won't lie to you."

Stella put away the empty shopping bags and gave the now full fridge a last, satisfied look.

"Thanks, Stel," Mac repeated. "For coming here. For the shopping."

"Least I could do." And then she hugged him. "Talk to Don."

He hugged her back with one arm, the other balancing his weight on the crutch. "I will," he promised.

* * *

When Don came home that night it was already past midnight. Mac had dozed off throughout the afternoon and was awake to greet his lover. Looking into the pale, drawn face he saw exhaustion reflected in the bright blue eyes. Bright only in color, not in life.

"Damn case," Don muttered as if to explain why he was late. "The guy's as slippery as a snake and we can't pin anything on him. Kills five people and some scumbag lawyer get shim off because of a technicality!"

Stella had told Mac about their latest case, an apparent serial killer who left no viable traces and who seemed to flaunt it all in their faces. Don was out on the street, talking to snitches and witnesses, but whoever might be useful was too scare of the suspect. The latest victim had been found just yesterday, a young waitress, her throat cut, the knife discarded off and without prints.

Just like before.

"We'll get him," Mac only said calmly.

He hated to see the tiredness in his lover, the slump of his shoulders, the pale skin. Don was unconsciously rubbing over his scarred abdomen, a gesture that had little to do with actual pain, just his frustration knotting together to give the scar a false ache.

Don sighed deeply, but he didn't resist when Mac drew him into a gentle kiss. He answered it and when Mac wrapped an arm around the slender waist, Don stiffened slightly.

"Your leg…"

"Is fine. As long as I don't have to carry you to bed," Mac smirked.

Don chuckled a little. "Don't worry. I can make it."

They went into the bedroom and Mac watched as his lover stripped and then proceeded into the bathroom to take a quick shower.

"When are you going in tomorrow?" Mac asked, already in bed when Don came out again.

"First shift."

"You need to sleep, Don."

"When that animal is behind bars," was the reply.

Mac sighed a little. "You won't catch him if you run yourself ragged. Let the lab find evidence."

"There is none, Mac!"

"There's always evidence, even if it's just a tiny little shred."

Don slumped back. "Yeah."

He slid into bed, careful not to jostle Mac too much. The leg twinged sometimes, but it wasn't too bad, so Taylor pulled him closer.

"I'm fine," he preempted the protest to come.

Don closed his eyes with a sigh, sounding even more tired now.

"Get some sleep, Don."

"Yes, sir," was the mumbled reply.

Mac watched him as he slid into sleep, the youthful features relaxing, and he smiled tenderly. He still needed to talk with Don about taking it easy, to stop caring so much that it broke him. He was touched by the care, but he knew it was too stressful. He was taking too much from his lover in that regard.

* * *

Mac was the first to wake that morning and it spoke lengths about Don's exhaustion that the younger man didn't so much as move when he laboriously got out of bed. He limped into the kitchen without using the hated crutch and looked around for the coffee. Mac groaned when he discovered that someone, probably Don, had placed it onto the shelf above the coffee machine. On the top most shelf.

He had no idea what happened first, his knee giving way or the coffee box tilting. In the end there was only the loud bang of the metal box hitting the tiled kitchen floor, coffee spilling all over the place. There was Mac, his world tilting sharply as he fell, hands grabbing helplessly for purchase, but his own weight pulled him down. His leg luckily didn't twist, but it gave a sharp, shooting pain and he yelled.

For a long moment there was only the angry pulse from his abused knee and his own heavy breathing. Then a voice interrupted his own private misery.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Mac's eyes blazed as he looked up from the floor, clutching his knee just below the knee cap.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he snapped. "I was trying to make coffee!"

Don looked deliciously tousled and sleepy, and Don would have appreciated the sight on any other day, but not today, not now in this particular situation.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"You were sleeping, Don!"

"You're supposed to let me do the work!"

"No! I'm not a child!"

The pain made him cranky. He knew he was slipping into more and more crankiness with each pulse of pain, with each argument, but it was a downward spiral Mac couldn't stop.

Don just sighed and helped him up, something that had Mac even more pissed. His brain registered the pale features of his lover, the exhaustion present in every line that hadn't been there before, but it was a secondary observation. Foremost Mac Taylor was furious about his own inability to be independent, especially with small tasks like making coffee.

He tore his arm out of Don's grasp and hobbled over to the kitchen counter to have something to lean on.

"Mac, I'm here to help…"

"Don't coddle me, Flack!" Mac shot back. "I'm no invalid, I'm no baby, and stop treating me like I'm unable to do anything!"

Don drew back. "Mac…"

"Don't! Stop making me helpless! I'm not! I can take care of myself!"

Don threw his hands up. "Fine! Do what you want! I won't stop you!"

With that he turned around and stalked out of the room. It didn't take a genius to know what happened the next minute. Because after just that minute the apartment door slammed shut. From the outside.

Mac stood in the kitchen, slightly swaying, wondering when good intentions had gone down the drain.

* * *

Don had gone home, showered, changed into fresh clothes, and driven to work. It had all happened on automatic. His mind was turning the fight, brief as it had been, over and over in his head. Brief and unexpectedly vicious. Mac had never snapped like this before, never in the years he knew him now, and it was something that didn't sit well with Don. Added to that was his worry about the man he loved. Mac was still unable to get around much on his own, though he was a lot more mobile than a few weeks ago.

I left him. I ran out the door without thinking.

The kitchen had been a mess and Mac had an appointment this morning.

Shit.

But he had a shift to start and a priority case to run, next to a dozen or more open cases that had investigations going on.

Don lost himself in paperwork, talking to witnesses, the DA, his lieutenant and whoever else he had to talk to. He wrote reports, he followed up on evidence, locked up perps he had arrested, and the day went by.

He managed to evade Stella, but when he came to talk to Danny about the latest case, he was cornered by his best friend.

"You look like shit, Don," the blond stated.

"Thanks, Messer, that's what I needed to hear."

"Maybe you do. When was the last time you slept?"

"Yesterday. About the evidence…"

Danny shot him a dark look, but he obediently update the other man on what was going on with the various findings, and Don filed the information away for later. They were making, albeit slow, headway.

"Get some sleep, man. And tell Mac to stop treating you like his personal servant," were Danny's parting words.

Don was left confused, slightly disturbed and extremely tired. On top of that was the lingering worry about leaving his lover alone. But the worry stepped back under the rather pressing matter of Danny's comment. Not just this one. Those as of late. As if he suspected or even knew about Mac and Don… as if he didn't need to be told any more…

Don sighed and ran a hand through his short hair. He needed sleep. Real sleep. Last night had been too brief, and he was still feeling the shock waves of the heated argument, the fury in Mac's voice, the blazing eyes – and the pain.

Damnit!

Don packed up his things and drove home, his own home, and spent another hour thinking over what to do. He finally threw a few clothes into an overnight bag and braved the traffic once more to reach Mac's place. He didn't know what kind o welcome he would get, but he would at least hold out the olive branch.

* * *

Mac had spent the day beating himself up over the fight. He had called Don twice, but each time he had been out and he hadn't left a message. Stella had called in turn and she had gotten the truth out of him, which had resulted in a lengthy cursing and cussing session in Greek. Mac was glad he didn't speak the language, though he got the gist of it.

"Men!" had been the only English word in that tirade.

"Stel," Mac had only said, voice level.

She had snorted and told him to clean up his act.

He had tried. But he had actually no idea what else to do. Mac had cleaned the kitchen as best as he could, he had taken a cab to his appointment, and while his doctor hadn't been happy, he had cleared him for light duty next week. The fall hadn't aggravated his knee much.

Now Taylor sat in the living room, contemplating. It was already late and he wondered if Don would come at all. His lover had every right to spend the night away from the grumpy man Mac had become. Grumpy and angry at his injury and pissy and very frustrated. Sex had been a no go for obvious reasons and maybe it had only added to the general mood. Mac had never been aware how intimate they were with each other, not just sexually, until each move, each dip of the mattress had sent prickling pain through his knee.

When the key turned in the lock, he laboriously got to his feet. Don walked into the apartment stopped short, face shadowed by indecision and a careful hesitancy that made Mac's stomach clench.

"Hey," he managed.

Don didn't even smile. "Hey. Uh… can I… do you mind?"

Mac limped closer. "No, Don. Not at all."

Don's eyes ran over him, checking him, and came to rest briefly on the injured knee.

"I'm fine," Mac answered the unspoken question.

"Sorry about this morning," Don murmured.

Mac came even closer, each step a little victory, and finally was close enough to be in Don't personal space.

"You did nothing wrong. It was me. I… took my frustration out on you."

One last limp had him up close and personal and Mac did the only thing he could think of to bridge the last gap. He cupped his lover's neck and tugged very gently. Don followed the move and leaned down, their lips meeting. The kiss was almost chaste.

"Sorry," Mac whispered once more against the moist lips. "Sorry."

Don looked terrible. Tired and wasted and in bad need of sleep and some time off. Not from work, but from taking care of Mac. He needed to live his own life, not Mac's.

"C'mon," Taylor said softly, stepping back. "Let's get you something to eat and then sleep."

"Mac…" Don started to protest, but the older man was adamant.

He had his way and within an hour, Don was in his bed, next to him, sleeping. It hadn't taken very long after a quick sandwich dinner to have Flack get some shut-eye. It was testimony to how badly he needed it.

* * *

Stella had been right: Mac wasn't much of a talker when it came to his emotions and his thoughts. Claire had somehow understood him without needing to hear the words, though he had said them. He had talked to her about his tougher days, his thoughts, but it had never been him who had started this particular conversation. Somehow she had made him talk.

Don was different. He was more like Mac himself. He was quiet, he was very private, he didn't spill his guts to everyone who gave him sympathetic looks. Taylor appreciated the silent strength that was his lover. He loved just sitting with him, holding, touching, caressing the taller, leaner form, and he enjoyed their physical aspect of loving very much. Don could be vocal, he was very active in bed, he knew what he wanted, and Mac wanted it just as strongly.

Just the talking part was… difficult. And it led to massive problems. Like right now. It hadn't been their first near-catastrophe, and Mac knew it wouldn't be their last.

For the first time he wished he was empathic instead of a Seeker. At least then he could get a read on his lover.

He smiled tiredly. Then again, being empathic had its downsides as well. Taylor knew only one empath and that was Dr. James Wilson, and the man had his hands full with his abilities.

Mac looked at the sleeping man on the bed. No, he preferred being what and who he was. All the pain aside, this wasn't the end of the world and he knew he could fix it. He had to fix it somehow. Don was still asleep, so deeply that he hadn't even felt Mac move out of bed. Taylor had washed and dressed all on his own, then got the coffee machine going – without creating a mild chaos in the kitchen once more. Now he was watching the sleeping detective, a soft smile around his lips. The smell of coffee was coming from the kitchen and from the way Don was moving, he was waking already.

"Morning," the detective murmured sleepily as he blinked his eyes open to meet Mac's gaze.

A slow smile was crossing the familiar lips and Mac smiled back.

"Good morning. Coffee's ready. And no, it's not all over the floor this time."

Don looked a little more awake at the comment, but Taylor raised a hand, waving it off.

"Get a shower. I'll be waiting."

He limped into the kitchen and prepared two mugs, then settled in for a wait, leg up on a kitchen chair. Don didn't really take all that long, though he had shaved, and he accepted the mug gratefully.

Silence descended between them, both men lost in their thoughts. Mac's eyes were on his lover and he watched him with the eyes of a criminalist. Don looked better, there was more life in his eyes, but the lines around those eyes were tell-tale enough.

"Don," Mac started after a moment, "I want to apologize."

Blue eyes looked at him, startled. "Mac…"

"No, let me finish. I behaved like a total asshole. I used you. Not knowingly. I wouldn't ever think of you as my… servant. I felt miserable, I was angry, and I didn't look. I just… acted."

"It's okay," Flack tried a protest.

"No, it isn't! You have a life and a job. You're not employed by me. You also don't owe me anything, Don!"

Lips thinned and the blue eyes looked away briefly. "I owe you my life, Mac. Helping you was nothing compared to what you did for me," as the soft reply.

"I did what I had to at the time," Taylor said, voice hard. "And the rest of the time all I did was visit you in the hospital."

Flack's expression told him enough about how much that had meant and Mac swallowed a sigh.

"After that… Don, you can't compare… and you can't go around trying to help me and running yourself into the ground at the same moment. I only wrenched my knee!"

"You needed help!"

"There are cabs I can take to rehab and I need to learn how to work with the crutches. I'll be back at work soon, too." Mac exhaled softly. "Don, I love you," he stated calmly, startling his partner. "I love you very much and I know how much I also hurt you. I'm not the most outspoken of men and I probably won't ever be. I need you to kick my ass before I destroy something that means so much to me."

Flack stared at him, visibly shocked at the confession. "Mac, I… you didn't destroy anything…"

"Nearly did."

Don closed his eyes for a moment, then rose and came over to Mac, leaning down for a deep, gentle, and very much reassuringly loving kiss. Blue eyes met gray-blue and Flack smiled a little.

"I need to go to work," he murmured.

Mac ran a caressing hand up the lean side, enjoying the closeness. "I know. You don't have to get anything for tonight. Stella brought stuff over. And I'm cooking. No argument." The last was said with a stern look.

Don smiled more. "Yes, sir," he answered and stole another kiss.

Mac smirked and watched from his place as the detective finished dressing, then grabbed his coat and left after another kiss.

Not much had been said, but Taylor hoped that what little he had been able to put into words had been understood. He didn't want to lose Don. Not because he was such an ass, not because of misunderstandings, and not because of his own inability to express himself.

* * *

"I think Danny suspects."

Mac raised a brow and looked at his lover. Don was comfortably stretched out on the bed, looking pleasantly tired and, yes, well-fucked. While a wrenched knee hindered Mac when it came to the more athletic ways of sex, his hands hadn't suffered. He knew just how to use them and Flack hadn't voiced a single protest. He had voiced a lot, okay, but nothing said had told Mac to stop.

"Why do you think so?" Taylor now wanted to know.

"He's… he's been making remarks. After your accident he came to me, told me he wanted me to hear it from him before it hit the official channels, wanted to give me a chance to be prepared and stuff."

Mac played with the short hair of the other man. Flack's head was pillowed on his stomach, an arm thrown over Mac in a rather possessive gesture.

"He's my best friend," Don went on. "And we've been best friends for a long, long time. He knows me, I know him, but this was… unexpected. And the way he looked at me. It wasn't the first time either. He either suspects or he knows, Mac."

"And that's bad?"

Blue eyes glanced at him as Flack raised his head a little. "You tell me."

"I'm not ashamed of you, Don."

"I didn't say…!"

Mac stilled the protest. "I know. What I'm saying is, if someone on the team suspects and asks, I won't lie. Stella knows, Hammerback, too. Each one for different reasons. If Danny asks, I'll tell him."

Don was silent.

"Don?"

"I… I'm not sure. I don't know what Danny thinks of gay relationships… and even if he tolerates them, accepts them even, doesn't mean he would accept us."

Mac continued to stroke over the dark head. "Would you want me to lie?"

"No," was the soft reply. "I'm just a little worried, is all. You're his boss."

"And you're his best friend."

"He could make this hell…"

"I doubt it. He gave you a head start when it came to the accident," Taylor said slowly. "He could just have stood back and let you find out through normal police channels."

"Yeah."

Mac rubbed a gentle palm over the tense neck and shoulders. "It'll be okay, Don."

Flack was silent, his arm tightening briefly. Finally he scooted up and brought their lips together, claiming a slow, deep kiss that stirred something in Mac. The criminalist let his hands wander over the lithe body, pulling Don closer as the other man straddled him, bringing their growing erections together.

"Insatiable," Mac murmured, nipping at the lower lips.

"Uh-huh. You, too."

Fingers wrapped around Taylor's hardness, tugging, and he groaned in pleasure.

"My turn," Don said roughly, finding a rhythm that had the other man squirm.

* * *

Mac was finally able to walk and work normally a few weeks after his return to the desk. Kneeling was painless and he no longer felt like something inside his knee joint was about burst. Cases kept him busy and happy, but he didn't lose sight of his lover. He realized that their relationship had taken a slight blow, but nothing serious, and being together took more work out of the two men than either had expected. It was mainly because neither was an outspoken person, but both were detectives, both were good at reading suspects, and they both had to apply that skill on a private level as well.

Studying his lover as Don reclined on the couch, looking lazy and relaxed, Mac let his fingers skim over the dark sweater Flack wore. He had never intended to hurt his lover. He had never intended to be such an ass. Claire would have struck back, told him just that, that he was an ass, and things would have been in the clear. With Don, things were different.

Learning process. Mac knew he had to take into account that he wouldn't get immediate feedback from his lover should he hurt him emotionally. In a way it was like working with Danny Messer. The CSI was just as likely to bury into a hole when Mac snapped at him, licking his wounds. Only Don wasn't his employee. Don was the man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

The cell rang and Flack sighed, reaching for it. He frowned as he read the number and snapped it open.

"Yes?"

Mac listened with half an ear, then turned his full attention on his lover when the slender frame suddenly tensed.

"All right, all right," Don said. "I'll handle it. Give me the address. If someone asks, tell them you called the police, Joan, okay?"

He must have gotten an affirmative because Don hung up and started to rise.

"Case?" Mac asked, though something told him it wasn't.

"Nothing official." Blue eyes looked guarded. "Ally business," he finally said.

Oh. Oh!

Mac sat up straight. "You need help?"

It got him a chuckle. "You're no ally, Mac. As much as I appreciate the offer, this is my job. Won't take long. I just have to get a vampire out of a tight spot."

Mac felt alarm course through him. "A vampire?!"

"It's okay, Mac, really. Nothing problematic. She got 'killed' and now she has to remove the evidence."

"Don…"

"It's my job," came the reply once more. "I've done this countless times before." Flack walked over and kissed him briefly. "Relax."

Mac couldn't. He watched as Don got dressed and left, but the tension wouldn't go away.

He was still awake when his lover returned, looking none the worse for wear. There were no injuries, no dirty clothes, nothing that showed any kind of scuffle, and when Don saw his scrutinizing look, he smiled widely. He spread his arms and turned once completely.

Mac grimaced at the show.

"Worry wart," the younger man teased.

It got him a scowl.

"I take it all went well?"

"Sure. The usual. Mac, helping a vampire is what allies do. It's normal. I've done it ever since I was old enough to drive."

Another scowl.

"Mac…"

He sighed. "Okay."

Don leaned down and nipped at his lips. "Okay," he echoed.

"Hungry?"

"Ravenous."

"Go or stay?"

"I'd rather stay."

Mac nodded. "I'll order. Thai?"

"Fine with me."

Half an hour later they were on the couch again, sharing food boxes, and Mac found himself unwinding a little more. He had witnessed his lover's abilities as an ally before, but he had never been there when Don had received a call to go somewhere. Part of him wondered how often Flack had been 'on duty' in the past five years of them knowing each other, but another part didn't want to know at all.  
   
 


End file.
